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Green Mile
This
happened
in
1932
,
when
the
state
penitentiary
was
still
at
Cold
Mountain
.
And
the
electric
chair
was
there
,
too
,
of
course
.
The
inmates
made
jokes
about
the
chair
,
the
way
people
always
make
jokes
about
things
that
frighten
them
but
ca
n't
be
gotten
away
from
.
They
called
it
Old
Sparky
,
or
the
Big
Juicy
.
They
made
cracks
about
the
power
bill
,
and
how
Warden
Moores
would
cook
his
Thanksgiving
dinner
that
fall
,
with
his
wife
,
Melinda
,
too
sick
to
cook
.
But
for
the
ones
who
actually
had
to
sit
down
in
that
chair
,
the
humor
went
out
of
the
situation
in
a
hurry
.
I
presided
over
seventy-eight
executions
during
my
time
at
Cold
Mountain
(
that
's
one
figure
I
've
never
been
confused
about
;
I
'll
remember
it
on
my
deathbed
)
,
and
I
think
that
,
for
most
of
those
men
,
the
truth
of
what
was
happening
to
them
finally
hit
all
the
way
home
when
their
ankles
were
being
clamped
to
the
stout
oak
of
"
Old
Sparky
's
"
legs
.
The
realization
came
then
(
you
would
see
it
rising
in
their
eyes
,
a
kind
of
cold
dismay
)
that
their
own
legs
had
finished
their
careers
.
The
blood
still
ran
in
them
,
the
muscles
were
still
strong
,
but
they
were
finished
,
all
the
same
;
they
were
never
going
to
walk
another
country
mile
or
dance
with
a
girl
at
a
barn-raising
.
Old
Sparky
's
clients
came
to
a
knowledge
of
their
deaths
from
the
ankles
up
.
There
was
a
black
silk
bag
that
went
over
their
heads
after
they
had
finished
their
rambling
and
mostly
disjointed
last
remarks
.
It
was
supposed
to
be
for
them
,
but
I
always
thought
:
it
was
really
for
us
,
to
keep
us
from
seeing
the
awful
tide
of
dismay
in
their
eyes
as
they
realized
they
were
going
to
die
with
their
knees
bent
.
There
was
no
death
row
at
Cold
Mountain
,
only
E
Block
,
set
apart
from
the
other
four
and
about
a
quarter
their
size
,
brick
instead
of
wood
,
with
a
horrible
bare
metal
roof
that
glared
in
the
summer
sun
like
a
delirious
eyeball
.
Six
cells
inside
,
three
on
each
side
of
a
wide
center
aisle
,
each
almost
twice
as
big
as
the
cells
in
the
other
four
blocks
.
Singles
,
too
.
Great
accommodations
for
a
prison
(
especially
in
the
thirties
)
,
but
the
inmates
would
have
traded
for
cells
in
any
of
the
other
four
.
Believe
me
,
they
would
have
traded
.
There
was
never
a
time
during
my
years
as
block
superintendent
when
all
six
cells
were
occupied
at
one
time
--
thank
God
for
small
favors
.
Four
was
the
most
,
mixed
black
and
white
(
at
Cold
Mountain
,
there
was
no
segregation
among
the
walking
dead
)
,
and
that
was
a
little
piece
of
hell
.
One
was
a
woman
,
Beverly
McCall
.
She
was
black
as
the
ace
of
spades
and
as
beautiful
as
the
sin
you
never
had
nerve
enough
to
commit
.
She
put
up
with
six
years
of
her
husband
beating
her
,
but
would
n't
put
up
with
his
creeping
around
for
a
single
day
.
On
the
evening
after
she
found
out
he
was
cheating
,
she
stood
waiting
for
the
unfortunate
Lester
McCall
,
known
to
his
pals
(
and
,
presumably
,
to
his
extremely
short-term
mistress
)
as
Cutter
,
at
the
top
of
the
stairs
leading
to
the
apartment
over
his
barber
shop
.
She
waited
until
he
got
his
overcoat
half
off
,
then
dropped
his
cheating
guts
onto
his
two-tone
shoes
.
Used
one
of
Cutter
's
own
razors
to
do
it
.
Two
nights
before
she
was
due
to
sit
in
Old
Sparky
,
she
called
me
to
her
cell
and
said
she
had
been
visited
by
her
African
spirit-father
in
a
dream
.
He
told
her
to
discard
her
slave-name
and
to
die
under
her
free
name
,
Matuomi
.
That
was
her
request
,
that
her
death
warrant
should
be
read
under
the
name
of
Beverly
Matuomi
.
I
guess
her
spirit-father
did
n't
give
her
any
first
name
,
or
one
she
could
make
out
,
anyhow
.
I
said
yes
,
okay
,
fine
.
One
thing
those
years
serving
as
the
bull-goose
screw
taught
me
was
never
to
refuse
the
condemned
unless
I
absolutely
had
to
.
In
the
case
of
Beverly
Matuomi
,
it
made
no
difference
anyway
.
The
governor
called
the
next
day
around
three
in
the
afternoon
,
commuting
her
sentence
to
life
in
the
Grassy
Valley
Penal
Facility
for
Women
--
all
penal
and
no
penis
,
we
used
to
say
back
then
.
I
was
glad
to
see
Bev
's
round
ass
going
left
instead
of
right
when
she
got
to
the
duty
desk
,
let
me
tell
you
.
Thirty-five
years
or
so
later
--
had
to
be
at
least
thirty-five
--
I
saw
that
name
on
the
obituary
page
of
the
paper
,
under
a
picture
of
a
skinny-faced
black
lady
with
a
cloud
of
white
hair
and
glasses
with
rhinestones
at
the
corners
.
It
was
Beverly
.
She
'd
spent
the
last
ten
years
of
her
life
a
free
woman
,
the
obituary
said
,
and
had
rescued
the
small-town
library
of
Raines
Falls
pretty
much
single-handed
.
She
had
also
taught
Sunday
school
and
had
been
much
loved
in
that
little
backwater
.
LIBRARIAN
DIES
OF
HEART
FAILURE
,
the
headline
said
,
and
below
that
,
in
smaller
type
,
almost
as
an
afterthought
:
Served
Over
Two
Decades
in
Prison
for
Murder
.
Only
the
eyes
,
wide
and
blazing
behind
the
glasses
with
the
rhinestones
at
the
corners
,
were
the
same
.
They
were
the
eyes
of
a
woman
who
even
at
seventy-whatever
would
not
hesitate
to
pluck
a
safety
razor
from
its
blue
jar
of
disinfectant
,
if
the
urge
seemed
pressing
.
You
know
murderers
,
even
if
they
finish
up
as
old
lady
librarians
in
dozey
little
towns
.
At
least
you
do
if
you
've
spent
as
much
time
minding
murderers
as
I
did
.
There
was
only
one
time
I
ever
had
a
question
about
the
nature
of
my
job
.
That
,
I
reckon
,
is
why
I
'm
writing
this
.
The
wide
corridor
up
the
center
of
E
Block
was
floored
with
linoleum
the
color
of
tired
old
limes
,
and
so
what
was
called
the
Last
Mile
at
other
prisons
was
called
the
Green
Mile
at
Cold
Mountain
.
It
ran
,
I
guess
,
sixty
long
paces
from
south
to
north
,
bottom
to
top
.
At
the
bottom
was
the
restraint
room
.
At
the
top
end
was
a
T-junction
.
A
left
turn
meant
life
--
if
you
called
what
went
on
in
the
sunbaked
exercise
yard
life
,
and
many
did
;
many
lived
it
for
years
,
with
no
apparent
ill
effects
.
Thieves
and
arsonists
and
sex
criminals
,
all
talking
their
talk
and
walking
their
walk
and
making
their
little
deals
.
